


Drown Me in the River

by holyhael



Series: One Time Wonders [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Backstory, Dark, Drowning, Episode: s01e01 Pilot, F/M, Gen, Minor Canonical Character(s), Minor Character(s), Murder, Murder-Suicide, Suicide, Unhappy Ending, Women of Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 12:15:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2228664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holyhael/pseuds/holyhael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Mr Welch, did you ever hear of a woman in white? Or sometimes weeping woman? It's a ghost story. Well, it's more of a phenomenon really. Um, they're spirits. They've been sighted for hundreds of years, dozens of places, in Hawaii, Mexico, lately in Arizona, Indiana. All these are different women, but all share the same story. See, when they were alive, their husbands were unfaithful to them. And these women, basically suffering from temporary insanity, murdered their children. Then once they realized what they had done, they took their own lives. So now their spirits are cursed, walking back roads, waterways. And if they find an unfaithful man, they kill him. And that man is never seen again.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drown Me in the River

**Author's Note:**

> MAJOR TRIGGER WARNINGS: infidelity, insanity, murder, drowning, suicide, panic attacks, child abuse, self harm, and just terrible thoughts in general.
> 
> please do not read if these upset or trigger you. other triggers may exist. read with caution.
> 
> thank you [starreapertessa](http://starreapertessa) for betaing!

“Bethany?” Constance repeats shrilly. She can’t believe what she’s hearing. She can’t believe her husband, the man she’s loved since high school, could do this. And he doesn’t even have the nerve to tell her in person. He tells her over the phone in his apologetic voice, the one that says he’s deeply sorry but the one Constance has come to mistrust. _I’m sorry, honey, I have to stay late at the yard. I’m sorry, babe, the boss is sending me north for special parts. Probably won’t be home until Sunday night. I’m sorry, Connie._

“I love you, Connie,” Joe pleads, lies. Constance coughs on a sob. She holds her head in her hand and shakes it in disbelief. Her lips quiver. This can’t be happening. “Baby.”

Constance trembles. Her lungs don’t feel like they’re getting enough oxygen. “How could you?” she chokes. Her voice is broken with tears.

“I don’t know. A man does stupid things. I’m sorry.”

She licks her lips. “You keep saying that.”

Joe doesn’t respond. Constance listens to his heavy breathing. He still doesn’t say anything.

Constance bites her lip and ends the call and places the phone on the cradle. Her heart beats profoundly in her chest even when she thinks it shouldn't be. It should be silent. Still.

A sob escapes her lips. She cups a hand over her mouth to stifle the sounds.

How could Joe do this to her? She loves him. Doesn't he love her back? What did she do wrong?

Her eyes are shut, and all she can see is that woman straddling Joe's lap, undulating over him and whispering in his ear. Constance wishes she could claw her eyes out so the image stops, she just wants it to stop.

She has to tell her children. They have to leave.

Constance feels empty and disembodied from her body. She sees the world as if she is outside herself and behind. An eerie calm chills her veins; it does not frighten her.

She climbs the stairs, hand scaling the banister. The new, polished wood is sleek to the touch. Pictures hang on the opposite wall. Family portraits, a painting of the gazebo where Constance Harrington became Constance Welch, a self portrait Constance drew in her senior art class. The latter has been crooked on its nail since the 6.7 earthquake over two years ago, and no one's righted it yet. It's the last frame going up the stairs. Constance pauses at it, corrects it, and moves on.

Behind the ajar bathroom door, her children play. Constance walks silently towards it. Through the gap, she sees her son, Peter, holding a rubber duck to his sister's nose and making a quaking noise. Cynthia shrieks with delight and claps her hands together.

Constance reaches out. Her fingertips make contact with the wooden door. It takes very little effort to push it forward on its creaking hinges. Peter and Cynthia are startled by the sound, but once they see it's their mom, they smile. Oh, how innocent they are. They know nothing of the liars, thieves, and adulterers in the world, have no idea their father is one of them. If only Constance could keep them innocent. If only there was a way.

Cynthia sloshes around in the tub to see her mother better. Constance's eyes narrow in on the water flowing over the tub's lip, even as Cynthia talks to her. "Momma! You've come to play?"

Peter, who is older and more perceptive, knits his brows together and tilts his head to the side. "Momma? Are you all right?"

More water spills onto the tile. Constance can't tear her eyes away from it. Her breathing comes fast.

"Momma?" Peter sits up on his knees. "Momma?"

Finally, Constance flicks her gaze over to her children. Her two perfect angels who know nothing wicked. There's a way.

She gives Cynthia a smile. She does not feel it in her heart, barely feels it on her lips. She takes the steps necessary to reach the tub. Her feet slap the puddles of water on the tile, and when she kneels in front of the tub, her white dress soaks up spilled water.

"Yes, I've come to play," Constance says. Her voice sounds just as empty as she feels. She brings a hand to cup Cynthia's smiling cheek. Her left hand finds Peter's shoulder. The duck he was playing with moments ago floats sideways between the two children, forgotten.

“You two know I love you very much,” Constance says. Her eyes prick with tears that do not fall. She blinks rapidly so her vision doesn’t blur. Both Peter and Cynthia nod: Cynthia is trusting as ever; Peter looks at Constance with confusion. His mouth opens to begin speaking, and that’s when Constance closes her eyes and pushes them both into the water.

Terrified, Peter and Cynthia rebel against her. They fight, arms flailing and scratching. Tears stream down Constance’s face. Why won’t they just keep still? Constance is doing this because she loves them. Don’t they know this is for their own good?

Their resistance lasts a lifetime. Then, one by one then none, the fight ceases. Cynthia stills first, Peter next.

Nonetheless, Constance holds them down for another lifetime. Her right hand is curled around Cynthia’s neck and cannot feel a pulse. Her left hand is splayed across Peter’s freckled back.

Constance hangs her head between her arms as sobs rack her body. Tears fall down her cheeks, her nose.

Other than the sound of her crying, the house is silent. No more laughter. No more squeals of delight. No more…

Oh, God. What has she done?

Constance’s dress flutters around her as she runs out of the washroom and down the steps, nearly tangling and tripping her. More tears stream down her face in frustration at the stupid gown. Long, wet, useless. She stumbles and falls on the last stair and just sits there on her sore ass as the tears continue. She buries her face in her wet hands. The hands that just held her children underwater. As soon as she realizes this, she jerks her hands away. They tremble in front of her, pale and wrinkled, the fingernails bitten to the quick from all the anxiety she’s felt over the past week.

She howls with her head tilted back. Tears and snot course down her neck. Her body shakes so strong she’s surprised the earth isn’t moving too, with her, because of her. The earth should shake and crack and swallow her up so she can never be anymore. Never be. Never be.

The phone rings.

Her sobs quiet. Constance sniffs. The phone continues to ring. It continues to ring, and it occurs to Constance that she should call someone. Someone needs to know what happened to her children. Not her husband. This is all his fault.

A foreign, discomforting voice announces the caller has reached the voicemail of the Welches. Leave a message after the beep.

Constance steels herself.

_Beep_.

Silence. Then,

“Connie, it’s me. Just pick up please. I made a mistake. That’s it. Please.”

Constance doesn’t dare breathe. She closes her eyes tight and tilts her head back. She doesn’t breathe, but there’s no water in her mouth or nose.

“I know you’re there, Connie.”

Static fills the silence. He hasn’t hung up. The call doesn’t end until the machine cuts it. Joe doesn’t redial and try again.

On trembling legs, Constance stands up. She holds her arms out to the wall for support. She leaves wet palm prints in her wake on the way to the kitchen. The phone is just where she left it, cradled to the receiver. The red answering machine light blinks at her. She wonders how many calls have been recorded. How many times Joe called since she last picked up the phone. It doesn’t really matter. She’s just delaying the inevitable. She needs to pick the phone up, punch in the three numbers. It’s just three numbers.

9\. 1. 1.

Deep breath. Deep breath.

She can feel the tears on her cheeks and throat and nose drying with the breeze provided by the open window above the sink. She swallows the thick ball of snot and tears in her throat, takes another deep breath, and picks up the phone.

9\. 1. 1.

“Nine-one-one, do you need police, fire or medical?”

“I-” Constance stops. Swallows. What does she need? She didn’t anticipate this question. “My babies-” she tries again and is stopped by the hitch in her throat.

“Ma’am, what is your emergency?”

Hyperventilating, Constance lies to the operator. She gave her children a bath. She was only away for a moment. But they’re still, so still, so pale, so blue. She cries while the operator asks about her location and tries to console her. Breckenridge road, Constance sobs. 4636.

“I’ve got police en route, ma’am,” the operator says. “Would you like to stay on the line until they get there?”

Her teeth have a thin film on them that she tries to lick off to no avail. She shakes her head at the operator and hangs up the phone.

Silence stuffs her ears like cotton. She gasps heavily.

She needs to

She needs to

She

Her chest feels like it folds inwards, collapsing in on itself like a star under its own gravity, heavy, heavy, heavy. The black hole formed traps everything and sucks it down, never to be seen again. She’s on her knees; she brings her hands up to her chest and claws, scratches, bleeds. The blood feels different than the water and the tears. Constance just wants to bleed enough to drown in it. Fill her lungs with thick, red, metallic. Choke on it.

No amount of blood in the world would be enough to kill her. She needs it to swallow her, carry her away. She needs

The river.

Swollen and dirty from the melted mountain snow and last night’s rain, Sylvania River is perfect. The water is deep, the current overpowering. It drowned her neighbor Deanna Kripke’s largest mare before. It will do the same to Constance.

The phone rings again above her. Joe again, no doubt. Before the answering machine can pick up the call and play the message aloud, Constance stands up and walks away. There’s an unnatural grace to her conscious steps. She feels every line and groove and imperfection in the wood under her soles. Her arms hang by her sides. The phone base beeps just as she crosses the threshold. She hears Joe’s voice but not his words, and with every step she takes forward his tone fades until it’s nothing, and all that Constance hears is her footsteps on the gravel, the wind blowing through the spring trees.

She can never go home.

Her hair whips around her face, pushed from behind by the wind. As if the wind is urging her forward. Toward the river.

Deanna’s house is the only one between Constance’s and the river. Her porch light is on but does not illuminate Constance. Her Rottweiler does not start barking up a storm like she normally does when someone passes in front of the property.

Nothing impedes Constance from her trajectory. It’s almost as if… this is the way things are meant to be. The universe has aligned itself to bring Constance here, on the edge of the bridge. Her hands hold onto the railing in front of her as she peers down at the rushing, roaring water. The wind is more forceful here, and it blusters Constance’s hair into her face, coming from the side. The tarmac feels greasy beneath her feet.

Then, she extends her arm to the bracing and uses the leverage it gives her to rise onto the railing.

Her gown tangles around her legs. Her long, damp, useless dress. At least it will weigh her down in the water. Not so useless after all. Constance barks out a laugh that echoes around her. No one is there to hear it.

She licks her lips and inches forward. Her toes curl around the railing.

She tips her head up, hoping to see her stars. But there’s only clouds. Dark, flat, obscuring. Constance doesn’t deserve any comfort now, not after what she’s done, what she’s about to do.

She closes her eyes and lets go of the bracing. Her arms open wide like wings, and she feels the wind through her imaginary feathers. Her toes curl forward, giving her just enough momentum forward to lose her balance and fall.

The river swallows her up.

 

**Author's Note:**

> check out the [one time wonders meme](http://gpad.co.vu/post/95376013134/attention-supernatural-fans-brought-to-you-by) on tumblr and the [blog](http://onetimewonders.tumblr.com) that goes with it!!


End file.
